Chapter 139: Smoke Over the North
The bells of St. Peter’s tolled at the Angelus hour, their iron tongues echoing over the marble courtyards and the city’s teeming markets.
Yet inside the Apostolic Palace, the air was thick not with prayer, but with tension.
Pope John XIX sat in the high-backed chair of the Consistory Hall, its carved arms depicting the Twelve Apostles.
Cardinals lined the walls in crimson robes, their faces stiff with unease.
The pontiff’s fingers drummed on the armrest as a messenger, dusty from the road, his cloak salt-stained from the sea, knelt before him.
“You are certain?” John’s voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of judgement.
“As certain as the sailors who saw it, Holiness. A hundred ships or more, flying the wolf-headed banners of the North. They left the fjords of Iceland with warriors beyond counting. The word from the ports is that they have made land in England’s north. Villages burn. Monasteries fall silent.”
A murmur passed through the assembly. One cardinal crossed himself; another whispered a psalm under his breath.
John’s gaze darkened. “Vetrúlfr Úllarson…” The name rolled from his tongue like a curse. “The White Wolf. At last he bares his fangs against the flock.”
A senior cardinal stepped forward. “If the reports are true, then Cnut’s crown trembles. England may not hold. And if England falls to the pagans, it will not be long before their fleets scour the Channel and harry the coasts of France, even Iberia.”
“Then we must not wait for that day,” the Pope said, rising to his feet. His voice hardened, echoing off the frescoed vaults. “Send word to the Emperor in the Holy Roman Empire. To the kings of Aragon, León, and the Franks. To the Doge of Venice. Let them know that the wolf has come for the lambs, and that Christendom must close ranks.”
A younger cardinal, hesitant, asked, “Will they answer, Holiness? Many are at each other’s throats already.”
“They will answer,” John said coldly, “or they will answer to God for the ruin of the Church’s lands.”
He turned toward the light streaming through the high windows, as if seeking some sign in the shifting Roman sky.
“The North once brought the Faith its fiercest foes. We thought of them tamed. But the winter gods are patient, and their son is at our gates once more.”
The bells tolled again.
This time, they sounded like a warning.
The Pope’s command set the chamber into motion. Servants hurried forward with scrolls of vellum, inkpots, and quills.
The air filled with the scratching of nibs as scribes bent over the long oak tables, committing John’s words to parchment in the flowing hand of the Curia.
Each missive was nearly the same, a summons, a warning, and a plea, couched in the language of divine obligation.
Come to the aid of England, lest the pagan wolf devour the lamb and turn his hunger upon your flock.
Seals were heated over braziers until the wax melted like blood in the cup. John pressed the Fisherman’s Ring into each one, leaving the imprint of St. Peter’s keys upon the hardened scarlet.
Cardinal Rainier, the Pope’s secretary of state, stepped to John’s side. “The Emperor will expect promises of favor if he commits men. The Franks will demand assurances that their coasts will be defended before England’s. And Aragon…” He trailed off, knowing the kingdom’s suspicion of papal meddling.
“Then we promise,” John said, his jaw set. “Promise them relics, indulgences, gold, whatever it takes to make them move. The wolf does not wait for treaties to be signed.”
Messengers stood ready by the door, each assigned to a different corner of Christendom.
They would ride south to Iberia, north to the Empire, west to the Franks, and east to Venice. Some would take to the sea. Others would brave the Alpine passes.
John watched them go, each man carrying the Church’s call to arms.
He knew some would never reach their destination; storms, brigands, or worse would claim them.
Even those who succeeded might not return before the White Wolf had already carved his claim in English soil.
Still, the machinery of Christendom had been set in motion.
The riders had not yet cleared the gates of the Leonine Wall before the first smoke of fresh raids curled into the skies over northern England.
It rose in dark pillars above the Northumbrian coast, the kind of smoke that came not from hearths but from thatch and timber set aflame.
Vetrúlfr’s hosts moved inland in swift columns, their boots pounding the thawed earth, leaving the damp grass trampled and muddy in their wake.
Each band was small enough to vanish into the folds of the countryside, yet large enough to overrun any village in their path.
The pagans struck like wolves. One hour they were but a rumor whispered among trembling peasants, the next they were battering down a monastery’s oak doors with their axes.
Bells meant to summon prayer now tolled in panic, and the only chants that followed were the cries of the dying.
From his ring-fort on the coast, Vetrúlfr directed the tide with a hunter’s patience.
Ships shuttled spoils and captives back to the beach, while others brought fresh warriors from the fleet still anchored in the fjord-mouth harbor.
Word spread quickly through the shires: this was no fleeting raid. The north was being bled.
Messengers rode south at breakneck pace to London, their horses flecked with foam.
When they reached Cnut’s court, they told the same tale. The wolf had not come for Kent or Wessex, as the king’s war council had predicted.
He had landed far to the north, where the land was sparsely defended, and there he was digging in like a man who intended to stay.
By the time Rome’s letters would reach the hands of kings and emperors, the north of England would already be weeping.
Cnut could only sigh, and promise the messengers food and ale, or what little his realm still possessed.
His army was being gathered, but it was slower than he desired. Far too slow.
He could not help but look to the cross and wonder if his father in heaven had truly forsaken him.